Fred's Dead
by Emerson D'Artagnan
Summary: Fred's death left a hole in the hearts of all he held dear: fans, friends, family. But just how is Fred dealing with the fact that he's, well...dead?
1. Chapter 1

Light.

Even through his closed eyelids, Fred could feel an oppressive light pressing its palms against his eyelids, tugging his eyelashes with annoying urgency.

He was in the hospital wing.

With a deep sigh, the young man pressed his own palms to his eyes, watching as a cool blackness replaced the bloodiness of the inside of his eyelids. He tried to remember, with the frown that accompanies a recently forgotten joke. Then he felt the odd sensation of absent pain-- the feeling one gets when bracing one's self for a nasty hex and being lightly poked in the ribs instead. Then he laughed, remembering.

"Oi, Georgie," Fred said, his grin bleeding through into his voice. He kneaded his closed eyes and watched the pleasant explosion of stars. "Bit of a nasty fight out there, wasn't it? What happened? I was just talking to the Big-Head Boy, and then..." He strained to remember. "Was I attacked by a wall, or am I just imagining that? Haha, well, in any case, it'll take more than a wall to separate US, eh, brother mine?"

There was no answer.

"George?" Fred asked, smirking. "Oh, come on, now, don't pretend you can't _'ear_ me." Fred laughed and opened his eyes, blinking heavily to adjust his eyes to the light. He propped himself up onto his elbows and turned to face George on the left. George always waited for Fred on the left.

It was then that Fred realized three things: He'd been talking to no one, he was not in the infirmary, and he was quite strikingly naked.

Grinning, he sat up, not bothering with modesty. "Bravo, Georgie-Porgie-Pudding-and-Pie, but I thought we both aggreed that it was YOUR turn to wake up starkers in King's Cross." But then a thought struck him and his eyebrows knit themselves together as he looked around. King's Cross? Sure enough, Fred was sitting on the cool floor of the busiest train station in the Isles, naked as a jay bird, and completely, thoroughly, and totally alone.

Just when he was starting to panic, something soft touched his hand. Glancing down, he saw that a stack of neatly folded laundry had appeared beside him. "Convenient," he chimed thoughtfully.

Now that he was clothed, Fred had more important things to worry about.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hullo?"

Fred's voice echoed all around him with an uncomfortable unfinishedness. He reached up and scratched the back of his head as his dark eyes rolled across the pristine station, so bright and shining and bereft of life that it might have been King's Cross days before its grand opening to the public. Fred's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, and he rocked slightly on his heels as he fought the urge to run about and explore like a child. If George had been there, sure, he'd be headfirst under the seats looking for loose Muggle change that could be transfigured or charmed and set back into circulation...but something didn't feel right. The gentle comfortableness of the entire situation only made Fred all the more uncomfortable with it.

Finally, after a few moments (or hours, or days, or years... Fred's mind boggled and he seemed to have lost the ability to keep count of time) Fred took an echoing step forward, and then another. He walked about for who knew how long, marveling at the warm drowsiness of the station, the comfortable silence he felt inside. But somewhere, scratching ominously at the inside of his stomach, was a sharp loneliness he couldn't place. Fred froze. He felt as though he was being watched. Death Eaters, here? No, surely not, it was so...comfortable, and clean, and empty. Nevertheless, Fred was alone, without even his other half, his twin, for what seemed like (and may have been) the first time in his life. Cautiously, slowly, Fred slipped his hand into his robe pocket and fished for his wand.

It was gone.

Fred panicked, digging into the other pocket, still able to feel something like eyes boring into the back of his head like a knife into warm butter. When his hand came up empty, he spun around on his heel, ears flaming beneath his hair. "Is anyone there? I've got a wand, you'd better show yourself!" he cried, hoping his bluff would be enough to draw out any pranksters or...others.

There was silence, no sound but the soft reverberation of his call, repeating softly over and over again as if it could not find a way to escape the caverous station. And then:

"Who?" asked a soft voice.

Fred stiffened. So he wasn't alone. He couldn't decide whether to be relieved or terrified by this revelation. After a few moments (or so he surmised), he drew himself up to his height and said, with dignity, "Fred, Fred Weasley, of the Order of the Phoenix. I have a wand and I'm not afraid to use it. Who's there?" He waited for the voice to answer so he could determine from where its owner spoke, a trick he'd learned from years of eluding Filch with George. He cringed. George, where was George? But before he could dwell on his brother, the voice softly inquired again:

"Who?"

It was just the faintest ghost of a sound, and Fred wasn't even sure that he'd heard it. Acting purely on instinct, he spun on his heel to the right and found himself staring, from not 20 yards away, into large amber eyes. The two blinked softly at each other, confusion apparent in both the golden eyes and the brown.

"Hedwig?"


End file.
